Today it’s tolerable. I go down stairs gingerly and will use a handrail if one is available. Usually it takes two days for the pain to kick in: the micro-tears in the thighs and hamstrings, the swelling and aching, the general feeling that someone has taken a sledgehammer to your legs.

But, that’s part of the fun of mountain climbing.

My wife enjoys the stories of sweat and brutality, of muddy boots and damp sleeping bags and bugs, bugs, bugs. That’s because she is thoroughly enjoying not having been there.

And, so it was that I was all by my lonesome recently when I climbed Mount Haystack in the Adirondacks.

The Adirondack range of New York is the older twin of its New Hampshire neighbor, the White Mountains. The high peaks are not quite as high but you are more likely to see exotic wildlife such as deer and Canadians in the Adirondacks. I saw both on this last trip.

I left Northampton expecting heavy rain on Saturday but never had to break out my raincoat. The 6-mile hike in with a full pack was long, but not rough.

I was glad I brought my tent because the shelter I was aiming for was taken. When you’re camping alone there is a fair amount of doing nothing, and so I passed the time pondering my gear. I’ve been in the mountain climbing business for a while, and some of it is pretty old.

I bought my tent and backpack in 1982 as I was preparing to go to Alaska for the summer. I knew I would be living out of them for months, and I wanted quality equipment.

The tent floor lost its waterproofing a few years back, and now it’s a swamp in heavy rain. The pack has pretty much had it. Threads have come loose. Seams have ripped. It hangs a bit crooked on my back, making my right shoulder ache.

My sleeping bag predates the tent and pack by several years. It’s fiber-filled, and you’re not supposed to wash it. I haven’t.

The oldest gear I have is my cooking pot and the green plastic dishes and cups that came with it. There were once four of each. Now there are two.

I bought them at Spag’s in Worcester the year I graduated from Holy Cross, about the time I began to suspect this outdoors thing was for me. The pot has been blackened by so many campfires it smells like jerky. A friend of mine once used it to cook something on her kitchen stove and told me later she felt like she was in the woods.

My body is 58, older than any of my gear, and every year when I go into the mountains I wonder how it will serve me.

I set out at 6 a.m. after eating a muffin. Fifteen minutes up the trail I realized I’d left my water in the tent. Dropping my pack, I ran back down for it. The mistake cost me 30 minutes and valuable muffin energy. On the way I gashed my shin on a tree stump and bled for the rest of the trip.

The trail signs in the Adirondacks are woeful. Even after studying my guide book the night before, I chose the wrong trail at the junction. It took me to Haystack, but at twice the distance. Nonetheless, I got there.

To reach Haystack you have to climb over a huge rock dome called Little Haystack. The route is marked by cairns and yellow blazes and the only flora are tiny alpine flowers.

When you get to the top, there’s Haystack, a much bigger dome of rock, a quarter mile away. Haystack is the third highest peak in the Adirondacks, one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world.

Most people go for Marcy, the highest. Across the gulf, I could see climbers on Marcy’s summit with my binoculars. On Haystack there was only me and the quiet passing of time.

Climbing these mountains is relatively easy. Descending is like getting down from a towering heap of stoves and refrigerators: too far to step, unwise to jump. Your feet, ankles, knees, hips and back take a beating.

By the time I got back to my tent I was drained, and I still had to hike out six miles with a full pack. Flies buzzed my ears nearly all the way. I emerged into the parking lot bloody, mud-caked and sore. All that was left was the four-hour drive home.

At this point in the story my wife usually says, “I wish I was there with you. Not.”

But, she doesn’t know. Just below the summit, where the white-throated sparrows whistle their lonely tune, I saw my first ever gray-cheeked thrush. It was perched atop a dwarf pine, singing its heart out in the mountain morning sunlight.